Reasons Why
by Shame's Creativity
Summary: Peter Parker can't help but be haunted over the loss of Eddie Brock and the creation of Venom. Struck with vague inspiration, he sits down and tries to justify himself. *Takes place at an unspecified time during the Venom arc of the Spectacular Spider-Man*
**Hello, everyone! So, this is my first fic on this account. Super excited to see how it goes, since this is my first time writing any darker one-shots. Please enjoy, and drop me a comment telling me what you think!**

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Peter Parker sat alone in his room, quietly staring at a piece of blank paper on his desk. It was dark outside his window-night had fallen at least an hour ago. He held a pencil in his trembling hand. Swallowing hard, he gingerly touched the lead to the paper, but quickly removed it, leaving a small black dot. Just like the countless other failed beginnings that littered the top of the paper.

He couldn't say where he'd gotten the idea. Something on TV, perhaps, or some old piece of advice from Aunt May. However, the fact remained that Peter had heard, somewhere, that writing things down helped with emotions. An angry letter to your boss you never sent, a list of goals for later in life, or, in his case, reasons why Venom wasn't his fault. And so here he was, with a speckled piece of paper and a sharpened pencil, trying to put his excuses on paper.

Forcing down the lump in his throat, Peter steeled his resolve. With a bit more force than necessary, he stabbed the pencil down onto the paper, snapping the tip off. Blowing irritably on the desk to remove the small lead chip, he took a shaky breath and wrote.

 **Thought it could help me**

The symbiote, all evil intentions aside, had been a great help to Peter. Wearing it had made him feel as powerful as any professional superhero-fast, light, strong as titanium. With it on, he'd no longer had to worry about running out of webs mid-fight. It had made him feel-safe. Close. Not alone. Like a friend. And it had been subtle, too; tainting him with aggression and hatred so quietly he could hardly distinguish the alien's thoughts from his own.

And even though it had tainted him, there was no denying that the symbiote had made Peter a better hero. It let him help more people, beat powerful villains, clear his own tarnished name. It had helped him save that man in the plane, preventing an accident like the one that had claimed his parents-and Eddie's.

Peter clenched his eyes shut tight. Despite his best intentions, a familiar face swam to the front of his mind. Ruffled blonde hair, happy eyes, an easy smile. Eddie, as he'd been. Smiling and laughing and affectionately referring to Peter as 'bro'.

Just as quickly, that image was replaced with another. A hulking monster coated in black and white, a leering mouth full of ivory fangs and a foul, writhing tongue, a snarling two-toned voice full of hatred.

 _ **"We're NOT brothers!"**_

In an effort to banish the image, Peter snapped his eyes open and kept writing.

 **Thought I'd killed it**

He'd been so sure, so certain that the symbiote had died. He'd seen it get encased in ice, become nothing more than a spot of ink in an ice cube. And even if it hadn't died, he'd never thought the symbiote would find another host. He'd left cocky, confident, certain that it would never threaten anyone again. Knowing he had done the right thing, even if Eddie-

 _"You're supposed to be a hero!"_

Peter slammed his fist into the desk so hard the wood creaked. _Don't think about that. You_ were _being a hero. You were doing the right thing. Stop thinking about Eddie!_

Despite his protests, when he opened his eyes, Peter realized he'd been writing again, without realizing it. He stared down at the paper with wide, horrified eyes.

 **Didn't realize how much he hated me**

He...he hadn't realized that. He'd thought Eddie was just angry, that he'd get over it. When they'd talked after the Lizard, even Eddie had admitted he would probably come around, given time. Peter had thought this would be the same. Someone would explain that Spider-Man hadn't stolen the symbiote, and that was why Peter hadn't called the police, and then Eddie wouldn't be so upset. He'd let Peter apologize, and the two could make up and continue the way they'd always been.

But...why wouldn't he have been upset? If what Eddie had said was true, he'd been hurting all his life, and Peter hadn't realized it. In a quest for cash, he'd exploited a good man, even if he hadn't actually run off just to take pictures. He'd betrayed good people and close friends. And that was before the symbiote had bonded with his suit. It had poisoned Peter, turned him into a selfish monster. When Eddie had lost his job, he hadn't apologized or empathized; he'd lashed out. Without that job, Eddie wouldn't be able to pay for school. His academic career would be ruined. And what had Peter done?

 _"We're tired of your whining."_

Peter gripped his pencil tightly, so tightly that it splintered into pieces. He barely even noticed the dull stabs of pain as the shards gouged at his fingertips-he was accustomed to far worse. _That wasn't me! That was the symbiote!_ He'd never do something like that to one of his closest friends, not without some kind of outside force manipulating him.

And yet, all the symbiote had ever done was amplify. Amplify his strength, his speed, his spider powers. It had made him aggressive, yes, but only by taking those dark feelings already in Peter's heart and dragging them out into the open. Did that mean that, down in some dark, filthy corner of his heart, Peter felt like that? He resented his friends and was... _annoyed_ by the boy he'd known since childhood? Had he and Eddie ever truly been friends?

The dam broke. Tears dripping from his eyes, Peter thudded his head down on the desk, letting the broken pencil fragments fall from his grasp. His frame shook with barely contained sobs, his breath coming in wet, shuddering gasps. He cried for himself, and all the terrible events in his life in his life. He cried for his friends, whom he'd been so cruel to. And he cried for Eddie, who had been there since Peter had been a child, who, despite everything, had been like a brother to him, and who now wanted him dead.

He couldn't say how long he sat there, quietly sobbing into his desk. When he did sit back up and wipe his eyes, he looked down and saw that the paper he'd been writing on was ruined. His tears had blotched it, made the lead bleed and smudge, caused the edges to crumple and tear. A few drops of blood, as well, had dripped from his punctured fingertips and stained the page with drops of scarlet. The whole thing was a mess of grey and red. Ironically, almost comically, only three words were left legible. Three words spattered with drops of blood.

 **he hated me**

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Peter Parker removed the sheet of excuses from his desk, wadded it up, and tossed it into the trash can. In the end, that was all his excuses were. Trash.

Because in the end, his best friend was gone, and no matter how much he tried to justify his actions, it was still his fault.


End file.
